


Fin de Vers

by midautumnnightdream



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Jean Prouvaire is a Romantic, Non-Graphic Violence, On The Barricade, Originally Posted on Tumblr, dubbious Hugo pastiche, everything is pain forever, implied Bahorel/Prouvaire, in which the author made herself cry, more so in the face of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 07:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midautumnnightdream/pseuds/midautumnnightdream
Summary: Jean Prouvaire already knew the shape that his end would take. Now it was only the matter of finding the right words.(The Last Verses of Jean Prouvaire, from his own POV)





	Fin de Vers

In a way, it was over from the moment he felt the ground slid away from under his feet, any attempt to gain traction on rain-dampened wood made useless by the weight of the wounded soldier who, finding himself unable to hold onto his position on the barricade, had found Jean Prouvaire to be an acceptable substitute: a ghoulish embrace, a peculiar comfort for the dying, who on taking this final journey, would much rather enjoy the company of their enemies than their friends. This act of last minute desperation pulled both men into a rough tumble over the side of the redoubt that had already witnessed the fall of its red flag – a strange twist of symbolism that neither combatant was in a position to appreciate. All that Jean Prouvaire had a chance to take note of was the tumble of unexpected freefall that ended in nauseating crack of his skull making contact with the pavement, right under the startled eyes of the enemy combatants, already pulling back from the second wave of attack.

Whatever restraint the National Guard might have expressed towards their unexpected prisoner was quickly evaporated by the tragic state of his unfortunate adversary, expiring quickly before their eyes. Rough arms pulled Jean Prouvaire to his feet, the bayonet pressed against his back leading him away from the barricade – where to, he had no idea, struggling as he was to stay conscious, resisting the pain and oblivion out of inborn contrariness, rather than any hope of controlling the situation, but the awareness was a losing battle. Nevertheless, he persisted, blinking hard against the grey fog of his vision, pulling away from the soldiers until they tightened their hold of him, using his own pain as a tether to the present.

It wouldn’t do to miss one’s own death after all.

*

Jean Prouvaire was only vaguely aware of the torrent of words – questions – levelled at him, or the blows that followed his apparent refusal to answer, but the truth was, he couldn’t have made the words take shape even if he wanted to, nor could he make sense of the questions asked. A peculiar disconnect between the mind and senses – to hear, to feel, to see – and yet not to know the import of the words spoken, of the sensations experienced. To say that Jean Prouvaire was dazed, unaware of his fate being decided, would be to do a disservice to his bravery. To say that he willingly distanced himself from the farce of his trial, remaining stoic and untouched even as he disdained his captors the triumph of his participation, would be to do a disservice to the truth. Jean Prouvaire comprehended nothing and understood all. In this peculiar fugue state he was consistently aware of only one thing: the warmth against his neck, the almost-real hands holding him upright. He did not whisper the name. Even confounded, facing the threshold of his own death, he remembered the events of his final battle well. He knew the truth.

*

The argument around him has reached it’s morbid crescendo; still there is no shouting, only whispers that are urgent and harsh. The leader of the company is angry, so angry that Jean Prouvaire almost balks at it, his bruised mind converting the emotion into red-hot blaze, rapidly congealing into something twisted and ugly. The others are less straightforward in their feelings; there is hesitance there, doubt, but also anger and grief and confused loss. In the end, there was never any doubt which path the argument would eventually take.

(He tries to focus on the words, still, but they seem to slid past him, through him, as if his mind and body has turned into a broken lens, unable to focus anything but the pounding in his head, in his chest)

Something catches his attention, a flash of scarlet in the corner of his vision. _Bahorel?_ The thought comes quickly, naturally, even as the warmth against his back feels more real for a moment, but it snags in his mind. He blinks. There is something there, some thought regarding Bahorel that he should chase down to it’s conclusion, but his mind refuses to cooperate, and in any case, the strip of scarlet that’s proving so helpful in anchoring his consciousness is not the infamous waistcoat.

It’s the flag.

It takes him a long dizzying moment to make sense of what he’s seeing, but he remembers. The flag, raised to the makeshift pole on the omnibus that now hoists the tattered coat of the bravest man Jean Prouvaire has ever met. The flag that was torn down when the old conventionist fell and no doubt brought here as a trophy by their enemies. _Like me,_ Jean Prouvaire thinks. Oddly, the whimsical thought makes him feel a little less lonely.

The leader of the group takes notice of his preoccupation, distracted momentarily from his self-righteous anger into peevish rage: like any petty tyrant, he takes badly to being denied the suitable amount of respect by his victims. However, as his gaze follows Jean Prouvaire’s to the focus of later’s attention, his lips twist into a brief parody of smile; not an expression of amusement but an expectation of satisfaction through bloodshed.

“Would you like your flag, traitor?” The mocking tone leaving little doubt that the question should be treated seriously, but Jean Prouvaire nods anyway, not trusting the words that have so far failed to cooperate.

His hands, too, refuse to stop shaking as he fumbles to clasp the red textile thrown into his arms. Under different circumstances, the following jeers and jabs about cowardice might have cut deep, the knowledge of his own foibles providing amusement to these cruel men on the expense of ideals he holds dear hard to take, but the farce is almost over and Jean Prouvaire knows the truth. Perhaps the only truth that matters any more.

_(“All right, take him… hear… too close …n’t want any interruptions.”)_

All the stoic determination in the world can’t stop his vision whiting out at the edges as he’s pulled forward – back towards the barricade? – and he chokes back the cry of pain, momentarily glad that his voice doesn’t seem to work. _Light_ , Jean Prouvaire thinks wildly, wondering. _Is this the future, Enjolras? Is that how you see it?_ He receives no answer, nor does he expect one. At the very least, his friends are still safe in their redoubt.

Almost.

This time, he accepts the ghostly embrace around his shoulders, knows the flash of scarlet is no flag.

( _“No. ..leave the bli_ _n_ _… want … …tor to see”_ )

Right. The flag. Jean Prouvaire forces his fingers to relax just a bit. Just as well he has been so dazed, so obviously incapacitated by his injuries that no one has bothered with the bindings. Raising his hand above his shoulder is an exercise in pain, but at least he won’t have to hold the position long.

_Excellent_ the warm voice by his ear murmurs. _This_ _is_ _going to haunt their nightmares for years to come._ He can’t see it, but he can _feel_ that grin. Sharp, bloodthirsty and bright as devil’s, yet tempered with pride and affection. _Now there’s just one more thing._

Jean Prouvaire almost smiles.

( _“Any last words, traitor?”_ )


End file.
